


Down Comes the Night

by fructosebat



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Theon-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-02-25 23:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18712078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fructosebat/pseuds/fructosebat
Summary: “His name-day is in a month! He’s not even sixteen years old!”“Cat, we knew from the moment I brought him to Winterfell that this could happen.”***Or: Theon Greyjoy was a hostage against his father's good behavior. His father didn't care.





	1. I think it's going to rain today

The morning began, as mornings at Winterfell often did, with Brandon Stark, some 30 days after his 8th name-day, climbing the outside of the castle.

 

The sun was finally starting to heat up the stones beneath Bran’s hands when he paused partway up the tower to evaluate his progress. This morning’s challenge was the raven tower, and Bran was more than halfway from where he’d started. He knew that beginning from the battlements was _not cheating,_ no matter how Arya teased. He was in training; one day he’d climb to the top of the raven tower from its base.

 

Now he carefully shifted handholds and footholds as he made his way to the target: the open window at the top of the tower. With only a small amount of scrambling, and a brief (brief!) moment of his legs flailing in the air, Bran hoisted himself through the window and into the room beyond where the ravens squawked and flapped about in their cages. “Shh-shh,” Bran hushed them frantically as he pushed himself to his feet. Besides the birds, he was alone in the room; Maester Luwin was nowhere to be seen.

 

A sudden sound at the window disturbed the room once more, and Bran swiveled to see that a new raven had just arrived, bearing a message. A quick glance to the door – ajar – showed Bran that he was still alone, so he nipped forward and detached the small scroll from the raven’s leg with fumbling fingers. His eyes widened as he read the words scrawled within, when suddenly there was the sound of footsteps approaching behind him. As swiftly as he could, Bran returned the scroll to the raven, which squawked at him for his pains, and scratched Bran’s thumb with a talon.

 

“Ow!” he cried.

 

“Master Brandon,” came Maester Luwin’s voice from behind him. Bran turned guiltily. “You know this room is forbidden to you. How did you get in here?” Bran’s eyes darted to the window, then back to Maester Luwin’s. “I see.” For a brief moment they regarded each other. Maester Luwin raised his eyebrows, expectant. Bran took a breath, then darted around the Maester for the door, hurrying down the stairs beyond to the sound of his Maester’s exasperated cry of “Bran!” Bran imagined he’d likely be scolded for it later, but for now he needed to rush and find Robb – he’d know what to do with the knowledge Bran had just gained.

 

First Bran’s feet took him through the practice yard, the most likely place to find his eldest brother, but he wasn’t there, just Jon and Theon sparring with wooden swords, Ser Rodrik overseeing them. “Where’s Robb?” panted Bran. Jon spotted Bran and lowered his sword, pointing to the end of Winterfell that housed the family’s bedchambers. While Jon was turned, Theon smacked him across the rear with his own wooden sword, and cackled, dancing away when Jon tried to thump him. Shaking his head, Bran remembered himself and dashed away as Ser Rodrik caught a protesting Theon by the ear and dragged him a few paces.

 

“Robb!” said Bran when he found his brother in the hallway. Robb turned and caught Bran as he ran into him.

 

“Bran,” said Robb with a grin, “you in trouble for being somewhere you’re not meant to be again?”

 

“No, I mean, yes, I am, but that’s not why I wanted to find you.”

 

“Look, Theon tore my shirt, here – Ser Rodrik said no more real swords for today – ”

 

“Robb, something really serious has happened!” protested Bran, and Robb’s face went as solemn as the 15-year-old’s ever went.

 

“Tell me.”

 

First Bran checked the corridor to ensure they were alone, then he gestured for Robb to lean down as Bran whispered in his ear. After a moment, Robb went to one knee, eyes wide with alarm as Bran completed his message. Grasping his younger brother’s shoulders and looking him in the eye, brow furrowed, Robb said, “You’re telling the truth.” Bran nodded shakily. “Thank you for telling me, Bran. I’ll take care of it from here.”

 

“I want to help!” said Bran as Robb stood and hurried toward the yard.

 

“You have helped. Now go...pretend you never knew this.”

 

“But Robb – ”

 

“Promise me, Bran.” Robb stood solemn in a doorway, lit from behind by the sunlight that was casting his face in shadows. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

 

Heart pounding in his throat, Bran nodded, then turned and walked away.

 

***

 

Upon returning to the yard, Robb found his half-brother running sword drills with Ser Rodrick, but Theon was nowhere in sight. “Where’s Theon?” said Robb as he approached.

 

Jon rolled his eyes. “Where do you think?”

 

Robb found Theon near the kitchens, flirting with one of the kitchen girls with uncertain success. When the young woman noticed Robb approaching, she flushed bright red and giggling disappeared back into the kitchens.

 

“Now see what you’ve done,” said Theon in a tone of mild complaint. “Ha, you haven’t changed your shirt yet. What is it? Badge of honor?” he continued, grinning and giving the fabric a tug to show the hole.

 

“Need to talk to you,” said Robb.

 

“You are talking to me.”

 

“Alone.”

 

“Ooh, alone,” laughed Theon, but he followed Robb into a corner of the library. In a hushed voice, Robb told him the message Bran had spied, and all traces of mockery fell from Theon’s face.

Stricken with horror, Theon searched his best friend’s eyes for assurance of the truth of his words. Robb clasped Theon’s arm.

 

“What should I do?”

 

“I think you know,” said Robb.

 

***

 

Around noon, Lord Eddard Stark was in conference with his steward, Vayon Poole, about various matters concerning Winterfell and its daily running, when a servant appeared around a door, apologized for disturbing them, and delivered a scroll to Lord Stark. “Raven for you, sir.”

 

“Thank you,” said Ned, opening the scroll as the servant departed. Upon reading the message inside, he stood abruptly, distractedly muttering to Poole as he left, “Excuse me.”

 

For a few moments Ned stood in the corridor digesting the news, and then he did what he always did when burdened with a task too weighty to carry on his own: he sought out his wife.

 

It was one of the rare days that Catelyn Stark was not too busy with affairs of the household, and she was occupied with sewing lessons with her daughters, Vayon Poole’s daughter, Jeyne, and the castle’s septa, Septa Mordane.

 

“It’s too dim in here to see properly,” 9-year-old Arya Stark was whining when her father knocked gently on the open door. “Why can’t we go outside where it’s brighter?”

 

“You just want to watch the boys fight,” said her older sister Sansa, irritated.

 

Catelyn met eyes with her husband in the doorway over the top of Arya’s head. “Perhaps it’s time we all took a break to rest our eyes,” she said.

 

“Yes!” cried Arya, then upon her mother’s chastising look, “I mean, that’s a good idea, Mother, thank you.” Catelyn kissed her youngest daughter on the head and gestured for her to exit. Arya walked demurely to the door, where her father stepped aside to let her pass, and as soon as she was out of the room her footsteps could be heard running swiftly away.

 

“I’ll keep working, Mother, if that’s all right,” said Sansa, and her mother kissed her head as well before rising to cross to Ned in the doorway.

 

Leading Catelyn away by a gentle hand on her elbow, Ned said under his breath, “I need to have words with you. There’s been a raven from the king. Here, read.” He handed her the tiny scroll, and Catelyn scanned it briefly before stopping dead in the middle of the corridor, looking up at her husband in surprise.

 

“He really – ?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I never thought.”

 

“Nor I.”

 

They hastened to their chambers’ solar, where they could speak privately. Once they were closeted in their own rooms, Ned shut the door behind them, and it clicked closed with a heavy finality.

 

“You recognize the king’s handwriting? You’re sure this is genuine?” questioned Catelyn, and Ned nodded somberly.

 

“It’s Robert’s hand. The order is clear.”

 

“His name-day is in a month! He’s not even sixteen years old!”

 

“Cat, we knew from the moment I brought him to Winterfell that this could happen.”

 

“He is our ward,” Cat argued. “That’s what you said when you brought him here. And Gods knew I didn’t want him here, we already had enough children between – between ours, and the—the other – ”

 

“Jon,” intoned Ned.

 

“ – but we’ve done what we can with Theon, and, yes, he is...unruly, but he is still a _child,_ under _our protection –_ ”

 

Ned took her hands. “When Robert and I quashed the rebellion in the Iron Islands, we both agreed that to keep the peace we would take a hostage. And you’re right, I’ve tried to raise him as my own. But he was already 8 when he came here, Cat, and he knew this could happen as well as you and I did. And Robert’s order is very clear.

 

“Balon Greyjoy knew what would happen if he took up arms against the seven kingdoms again,” Ned continued. “He knew and he did it anyway. And he needs to know that King Robert doesn’t break his promises, and that there are consequences for the Ironborns’ actions.”

 

Grimly, Catelyn bowed her head, closing her eyes and breathing for a long moment. “Give him until after dinner tonight.”

 

“Robert’s order said at once.”

 

“Give him one last night with people who care about him,” she said, her mouth a hard line as she met her husband’s eyes. “Let him say goodbye to Robb. Oh Gods, Robb,” she realized, her voice choked. “They’re best friends, Ned. How can we – ?”

 

“We do what we must,” Ned avowed. “For the good of our kingdoms.”

 

***

Arya poked at the food on her plate, distracted. At the other end of the table her brothers Robb and Bran were occasionally exchanging significant looks that they apparently thought no one else would notice. Arya kicked her feet under the table and craned her neck to look around Sansa at her mother and father, who were whispering together and searching the Great Hall with their eyes. Tonight, she would ask Father, Arya had decided. It was time. She was 9 years old, after all, more than old enough to learn to shoot with a bow. She knew he wouldn’t allow a sword (she would wear him down on that eventually, she was sure), but certainly she could convince him to let her shoot. That way she could go on hunts with the boys and defend Winterfell if it needed defending.

 

When Mother and Father stood up from the table to go confer in the hallway, Arya saw an opening to speak with them privately before she lost her courage. After they had left through a side door, Arya crept after, steeling her nerves.

 

“ – be ridiculous, he’s probably off bothering that kitchen girl again, Imel, I think her name is. He hasn’t _found out,_ ” Arya’s mother was saying.

 

“We don’t know that he hasn’t. We should send a servant to find him,” Father said softly in his deep voice.

 

“That could let him know that something is amiss. You said he could have one last meal, Ned, before you tell him, before you – if you have to, to, to – he shouldn’t have time to _dwell_ on it.”

 

Arya’s brow creased as her mind whirled furiously. They were talking about someone missing, someone who was going to _die._ Who was missing?

 

“I need to take care of this as soon as I can,” continued Father. “Robert will probably send me off again to fight the Ironborn, I’ll likely have to rally half the North to do it. Better to do it now.”

 

 _The Ironborn?_ thought Arya. Were they talking about _Theon?_ He _was_ missing from supper...

 

“You sound almost eager, Ned,” accused Mother.

 

“I’m anything but eager, Cat,” Father said heavily. “But Balon Greyjoy knew that if he rebelled against the throne again, his son’s life would be forfeit. He did it anyway.”

 

Arya gasped, then clasped both hands over her mouth in an effort to be silent. “ _Arya Underfoot,”_ Theon had called her that afternoon, ruffling her hair as he’d passed her in the hallway.

 

_“Don’t,” Arya had complained, shoving his hand away. She’d looked up at him. “You’re carrying a bag. Why are you carrying a bag?”_

_“Little girls should mind their business,” Theon had said, smiling sharply. Something was strange about his eyes – he looked nervous._

_“Are you going camping?”_

_“Yes. Camping.”_

_“Can I come?”_

_Theon laughed and mussed Arya’s hair again. “No camping for little girls.” He started to walk away, then stopped, turned, and clasped Arya to himself in a fierce hug. “’Bye, Arya Underfoot.”_

_“Gross,” Arya had protested, hugging him back before pushing him away from herself._

 

Arya peered out the doorway at her mother and father, whose conversation had continued. Backing away from the doorway, Arya turned to rush to the table and talk to Robb – and ran smack into Sansa.

 

“Why are you sneaking over here, you little...sneak?” finished Sansa, after searching for an appropriate insult and coming up lacking.

 

“I have to tell Robb – ” said Arya, and tried to pass Sansa, but Sansa caught her arm and brought her up short.

 

“Tell me.”

 

“Father’s going to kill Theon.”

 

“ _What?”_

 

“I heard him. The Iron Islands rebelled again, let me _go!,_ Sansa, I need to talk to Robb!” whispered Arya ferociously.

 

For a moment Sansa seemed to lose her breath, stunned and horrified, but then she remembered herself and drew herself up. “That’s none of our concern, Arya,” said Sansa with all the imperiousness an 11-year-old could muster. “If Father’s going to do something, it must be the right thing.”

 

Arya’s jaw dropped. “You don’t _care?_ ”

 

“He’s not our blood,” argued Sansa. “He’s a hostage. You knew that.”

 

“ _I_ didn’t know that. And we’ve got to stop this, we can’t let Father kill him.”

 

“Why? He’s not our brother, Arya. He’s not our blood,” she repeated as if trying to convince herself.

 

“Because Theon shouldn’t be killed because of something his stupid father did, that’s why!” Arya’s voice was rising just enough that 4-year-old Rickon had turned from his seat at the table and was watching the two girls curiously as he shoved a piece of potato in the general direction of his mouth.

 

“That’s enough,” came Jon’s voice suddenly from just behind Arya. He put a hand on each of his half-sisters’ shoulders. “The whole hall can see you carrying on back here. You’ve got to set a good example for everyone in Winterfell.”

 

“Jon,” said Arya, frantic, “Theon, he’s going to, Father’s going to – ”

 

“I know, Robb told me,” said Jon, lowering his voice. “He’s gone.”

 

“Theon’s gone?” Sansa asked.

 

“Into the woods, this morning. Now don’t tell anyone you know that, especially Father.” Jon looked each of them in the eye. “Promise me.”

 

Arya promised fervently and Sansa paused before agreeing reluctantly.

 

“Back to your seats, now.”

 

***

 

“Go, then,” said Catelyn severely, “and I’ll speak with the children after dinner.”

 

With a heavy heart, Ned nodded and took his leave. His search started by the kitchens, since they were nearby, followed by Theon’s bedchamber, where clothing and belongings were strewn about – not just in the manner of a teenage boy, but in the manner of someone in a hurry. With a sinking feeling, Ned summoned several servants to him and ordered them to search Winterfell. A short time later Ned received the reports: arms missing from the armory, food taken from the kitchens, and no Theon Greyjoy anywhere to be found.

 

There was nothing for it but to rouse people from their dinners in the Great Hall and form search parties. Ned was strapping the greatsword Ice to his horse when Robb came running up behind him.

 

“Father,” said Robb, a hand on Ned’s arm. “Where are you going?”

 

Ned gave no answer.

 

***

 

It was full night when Theon heard the first search party coming up behind him. He’d left Winterfell on foot to prevent anyone noticing a horse gone missing, but it meant that he’d been running North most of the day on uneven ground. He had grown too warm in his exertions to continue wearing his jacket, but terror had gripped him so much so that he wouldn’t let himself stop for a moment to take it off.

 

The search party wasn’t calling out for him, but why else would Winterfell Northmen be riding at night through the forest? Theon stumbled to a stop next to a tree and as quickly as he could, scrambled up into its branches, hiding among the leaves. His pack hung heavy on his back, but he didn’t dare move in case the Northmen spotted him. The sound of his own rapid breath was overloud in the air, so Theon held his breath as the searchers passed directly underneath the tree in which he was perched.

 

Even when the search party was half-an-hour gone, however, Theon clung to the tree branch, panic clouding his thoughts.

 

For nearly eight years Theon had lived in Winterfell, and for most of that time he’d been braced for this very eventuality. It was inevitable. From what Theon could remember of his father Balon Greyjoy, he wasn’t a particularly caring man, especially when it came to his youngest-born son. He’d heard that his older brothers, Rodrik and Maron, had both perished in his father’s rebellion, leaving only Theon and his sister Yara after their mother passed from grief. Then, of course, the Iron Islands had been defeated and Theon taken –

 

The Starks had been nice enough to him. Certainly nicer than his older brothers had been to him, when they’d been about. Theon had missed his sister and his mother at first, but he’d been 8 years old – more than old enough to survive on his own, he’d told himself, in an enemy stronghold. The Stark siblings were a welcoming lot, and for the most part embraced him as a part of their family. It had been – nice. To pretend, for a time.

 

Down below his tree, there was the sound of a second search party approaching, and Theon saw that this one was led by Lord Stark himself. Theon almost didn’t recognize him – when Theon thought of Lord Stark, he thought of a kind man who imparted wise words and occasional fatherly affection, at least as much as a ward was entitled to. This Lord Stark was one Theon could believe had blood on his hands, from Robert’s Rebellion, and from slaughtering Theon’s Ironborn kinsmen. Who would soon have Theon’s blood on his hands, if Ned Stark had his way.

 

Once, when Theon was 13, he’d gotten into a fistfight with Jon, when Jon had insulted the Greyjoy house. “Better a bastard than a Greyjoy.” Theon had leaped on the younger boy and Ser Rodrik had had to drag him away. Theon had long since made up with Jon, but at the time Lord Stark was informed of the skirmish and had called Theon into his study for a heart-to-heart.

 

_“It is important to be proud of your origins,” Lord Stark said. “And the Ironborn are a proud people. You must take care, though, not to let your pride overwhelm you.”_

_“I suppose,” muttered Theon._

_“Aye, you suppose. You’re a smart lad, Theon. Tell me: when the smallfolk see you wrestling with another lad over a minor insult, what do you think they see?”_

_“I should behave more suited to my station,” Theon droned. “I understand.”_

_Lord Stark leaned back in his chair. “I see.”_

_“I’m sorry I punched Jon, but – ”_

_“Let me stop you right there,” said Lord Stark. “And tell you that the inclusion of the word ‘but’ means that all the words before that ‘but’ are horseshit.”_

_Startled, Theon let out a laugh._

So now, Theon supposed, Lord Stark had thought of Theon as his ward and treated him appropriately, the way a father ought to.

 

_But._

 

It was all too much. Theon felt a tear slip down his face and pulled a dirty hand from the branch he was clinging to to shove that hand in his mouth to keep from making a sound. His shoulders shook as he watched Lord Stark ride past the tree, his hand on Ice, ready to do his duty to the seven kingdoms and take Theon’s life.

 

 _Stop it,_ Theon admonished himself, as he shifted to watch the search party ride away. _You’re nearly 16. A man grown._

Probably it wasn’t safe to camp on the ground, with all the people out searching for him. Theon resolved to stay in the tree for the night. Wedging himself in against the trunk, pack clasped in his lap, he tried to at least doze, but his mind kept spinning and spinning.

 

He knew he’d miss them. Robb especially, and even Jon, and little Arya, and Bran the climber, tiny Rickon, and Sansa...well, Sansa not as much. Theon sighed. All right, Sansa, too, even for all her girlish disdain. While Lord and Lady Stark had always kept themselves a little apart from him, a little aloof – he wasn’t _theirs,_ after all – the Stark children had embraced Theon wholeheartedly.

 

Before he knew it, Theon was blinking into the dawning sun. Stiffly, he clambered down from his tree, with one remaining question on his mind. It was the question that his life always seemed to boil down to: was he a Greyjoy? Or was he a Stark?

 

 _Neither,_ he thought, and hitching his pack higher on his back, walked North.


	2. Every demon wants his pound of flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’re you doing out here in the middle of the night, boy?”
> 
> Something in Theon bristled at being called ‘boy.’ “Camping,” he said shortly.

 

Four days after his flight from Winterfell, Theon’s food supply was running dangerously low, even though he’d rationed it. During the day he’d trudge through the woods, mind filled with bitter thoughts, and taking care to avoid nearby towns when he passed them. Another search party passed him on the second day, but he again avoided it by hiding up a tree. At night he’d doze as much as he could in amongst the branches of trees, though on the third night he’d risked sleeping on the ground beneath a fallen bough, which provided a bit of insulation from the cold – the air was getting chillier as he moved farther North, even with his slow walking pace through the forest.

 

Now as he breakfasted on stale bread and dried meat, Theon decided he’d need to put his bow to use and shoot some game. Because it was still summer in Westeros, he’d come across a few berry bushes whose berries he’d known were safe to eat. One thing to thank the Starks for, he supposed: they’d taken him on a number of hunting ventures into the woods around Winterfell. Theon at least knew how to camp out for a few nights, although this was his first time camping without a tent and, of course, a retinue of servants to help make a campsite.

 

While hunting that day, however, it began to rain heavily, and as Theon was lining up a shot at a rabbit, his foot slipped on a slick rock and he went crashing into the mud. The rabbit disappeared back into its warren and Theon spent the next half-hour cursing to himself and trying unsuccessfully to brush the mud off of his tunic, trousers, and face.

 

Finally, just as the rain was letting up and dusk was falling, Theon took a squirrel with an arrow. It would have to do; he’d make a better showing the next day, he was sure. Dirty, aching, exhausted, and hating the world for its utter unfairness, Theon decided he’d have to risk making a campfire to cook his catch. After washing his mud-covered clothing in a shallow stream as best he could and changing into a spare tunic and trousers (the tunic, that he’d grabbed in haste, bore a beautifully-embroidered kraken across the front. Theon wore it inside-out), he laid out his wet clothing on some rocks and after about an hour’s struggle, built a fire with the driest wood he could find.

 

It was a little later that night, as Theon was chewing half-heartedly at the half-raw squirrel that he’d managed to char only on the outside (after skinning and gutting it himself; he hadn’t done that in years, and wasn’t looking forward to repeating the exercise), that he heard voices coming out of the trees nearby. _Shit._ He must have ventured too close to a town.

 

As the voices grew closer, they resolved into intelligible words. “ – stop and count what we’ve taken.”

 

“We’re still too close to the village.”

 

“Come on, we’ve killed three people, they’re not going to chase after us – they’re too scared!”

 

“That’s _why_ they’ll come chasing after us, idiot.”

 

There were four distinct voices, and they were drawing nearer and nearer. Warily, Theon stood and reached for the sword he’d taken from Winterfell’s armory, holding it ready to draw.

 

“Hang on, what’s this? Someone’s lit a fire.”

 

Two figures paced slowly into the circle of firelight: a middle-aged man and a teenager about Theon’s age, both dressed in rough clothing. The older man had the look of a killer about him. Theon’s eyes flickered to the other side of the clearing, where he heard two other sets of feet rustling through the underbrush.

 

“What’re you doing out here in the middle of the night, boy?”

 

Something in Theon bristled at being called _‘boy.’_ “Camping,” he said shortly.

 

“That’s a very fancy bow you have there,” a woman said, stepping into the light, referring to the bow resting against the rock where Theon’s clothes were still drying.

 

Theon drew his sword, cursing inwardly as he realized he had grabbed one that was slightly too long for him in his haste to leave Winterfell. Dropping the sword’s sheath to the ground and holding the sword in front him, willing his hands not to shake, he said, “Don’t come any closer.”

 

“You heard us talking, didn’t you, boy? What did you hear?” The older man had his hand on the pommel of his sword, now, but clearly didn’t see Theon as a true threat.

 

“N-nothing,” said Theon. “I heard nothing. Go on your way. No one will hear anything about you from me.”

 

“Look at his clothes, Elmar,” said the last bandit who was still hidden from view in the dark. He had a deep voice. Theon raised his sword a little. “Very fine.”

 

“Oh, aye, I’d say he’s highborn,” agreed the man with his hand on his weapon. “Tarik,” he said to the teenager, “go fetch this little lord’s bag, see what riches you find.”

 

The teenager moved to obey, but Theon stepped in front of him, moving his sword to strike. “I’m warning you.” His voice shook.

 

The teenager looked at the older man, who nodded. Theon was distracted by the other young man and almost didn’t see the elder draw his sword and move forward to dispatch Theon. There was a _clang_ as Theon’s sword blocked the strike, and the older man moved his weapon swiftly to stab again, but Theon blocked that blow, too, dropping back a few feet. Things moved quickly after that, the sound of metal hitting metal again and again resounding through the clearing. “Go!” snarled the bandit fighting Theon, and Theon vaguely heard movement behind him.

 

The older bandit was clearly experienced with a sword, and Theon should have been at a disadvantage, but he was castle-trained at swordplay, so when he saw an opening, he took it, slashing his sword on a diagonal across the man’s chest and neck. Blood flew glistening through the air, splattering Theon’s face, and the older man fell, clutching his wound.

 

“Elmar!” came a cry behind Theon, then “Tarik, go!” Whirling, Theon raised his sword to meet the other teen’s, Tarik’s, as the boy had finally moved to attack. There was fear in Tarik’s eyes as he tried to strike Theon, whose arms were tiring quickly from blocking blow after blow. There were scrambling sounds by the campfire, then the other two bandits took to their heels, disappearing into the night. Theon, distracted, glanced their way and Tarik got in a lucky hit, slicing at Theon’s shoulder. Theon gasped in pain, and Tarik fell back, eyes wide with shock at what he’d done. Gritting his teeth, Theon lunged forward and jabbed his sword through the boy’s neck and watched with horror as the light died from Tarik’s eyes.

 

Pulling his sword free, Theon stood panting, searching the area around him frantically with his eyes. The older bandit, Elmar, was face-down, dark blood pooling around him, and the corpse of the boy Tarik lay on its back, eyes open and staring sightlessly into the sky.

 

It was said that a man wasn’t truly Ironborn until he’d killed his first enemy. Theon supposed he was true Ironborn now, for whatever that was worth.

 

For a long moment, he tried to catch his breath, then his shoulder protested at holding up his sword, and Theon grasped at the injury, hissing in pain.

 

The two bandits who had fled might come back soon with reinforcements. He needed to move quickly, and... He stared at the dead teenager. He needed to take advantage of this opportunity.

 

Stumbling back to the fire, he evaluated his situation: his bow and quiver of arrows still remained in their place beside his still-wet spare clothing. The fire was half-dead, kicked over with dirt during the shuffle. And... _Fuck._ The pack he’d brought with him was gone, along with its contents: his waterskin, the small amount of food he’d had remaining, and the purse holding all the coin he’d had in his bedchamber in Winterfell that he’d been saving for a trip to Winter town. His bedroll was covered all over in mud, and torn, and what remained of his dinner was in the campfire, burning.

 

A strip of cloth ripped from his wet tunic went toward cleaning and dressing the wound on Theon’s shoulder. Hurried and shivering, he changed into the wet clothing, then stripped the corpse of the boy Tarik, dressing it in what he’d been wearing, the tunic turned right side-out again to display the golden Kraken sigil. Later he’d dwell on the feeling of lifting the corpse’s limbs, heavy and cooling, and struggling to pull the fabric over the unmoving weight. Theon sliced at the body’s shoulder with his sword where the kraken tunic was torn, then wiped his bloodied weapon on the boy’s former clothing. That clothing was held over the dying fire until it caught, then dumped on it to burn.

 

Finally, after discovering and pocketing a small purse partly-filled with coin on the body of the elder bandit, Theon stood over the teenager’s – Tarik’s – carcass, and braced himself for what he had to do. With a rending thump, he brought his heel down on the other boy’s face, scraping at the flesh. Bile in his throat, he stomped on the corpse’s face thrice more, the last blow yielding a sickening crunch as the nose broke. Theon surveyed his work: Tarik’s face was entirely unrecognizable. Theon ran to the edge of the clearing to be sick.

 

The fire finally snuffed out, Theon buckled on his sword, hooked his bow and quiver over his shoulder, and set out again into the woods. At least the moon was shining brightly that night.

 

***

 

Half a day’s hard riding from Winterfell brought Ned Stark to the scene a search party had discovered that morning. Jory Cassel was standing guard by two several-day-old corpses when Ned rode up and dismounted.

 

“It looks to be him, Lord Stark,” said Jory. “We think he was set upon by some bandits who robbed a town that lies West of here the other night. Looks like he and this man here killed each other.”

 

Ned approached the bodies. It was chill, here; the rot hadn’t set in as badly as it would have in warmer climes. The bandit lay face-down, but Theon’s body was facing upward, his face battered and unrecognizable. “What’s happened to his face?”

 

“Don’t know, my lord. Must have happened in the fighting.”

 

“Hmm,” said Ned. _Little Theon Greyjoy. What’s happened to you?_ For a time, Ned just stared at the corpse of his former ward, disgusted with himself for feeling some relief at not having had to kill him himself. In his mind’s eye he saw the frightened 8-year-old who boarded the ship from the Iron Islands 8 years before, who later strutted into Winterfell full of bluster and put up a false front of bravery before the Stark family. _Curse Balon Greyjoy to the bottom of the sea,_ thought Ned, and turned away. “Wrap his body up to bring with us, and bury the bandit,” he told Jory. “If we ride swiftly this afternoon, we can leave for the Iron Islands come morning.”

 

***

 

They’d agreed that Catelyn would tell the children. She gathered them together and broke the news while Ned stood nearby, grim. When the cause of the meeting was revealed, Arya ran off, looking furious. “I’ll go after her,” said Robb, solemn.

 

“Thank you, Robb,” Catelyn said in a low voice.

 

Bran went to his father, wide eyes making him look like a sad little owl. “Does Jon know?”

 

Ned nodded. “I spoke with Jon.”

 

Biting his lip, Bran nodded back. “I’ll speak with him, too,” he said, and walked out.

 

Sansa had begun crying, as she was wont to do under stressful circumstances. Little Rickon clasped at her skirts, asking “What’s ‘dead,’ Sansa?”

 

“Come with me, Rickon, I’ll explain,” said Catelyn, lifting her youngest boy and carrying him out after briefly catching her husband’s eyes.

 

Silently, Ned went to Sansa, who was weeping and hiding behind a handkerchief, and put a hand on her shoulder.

 

***

 

The next morning, Arya roughly shook her sister awake. Arya had been up all night, lying wide-eyed and awake in her bed, waiting for first light to break.

 

“Hmm? Arya, what are you _doing?_ ” complained Sansa, voice still blurry from sleep.

 

“We’re going to see Theon’s body.”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“I’m going to see Theon’s body,” explained Arya impatiently, “and you’re coming with me.”

 

“No,” protested Sansa. “Take Bran.”

 

“Bran’s too little.”

 

“And you’re _not?_ ”

 

“Sansa,” Arya whined.

 

There were further protests, but eventually Sansa gave way under Arya’s persistence. The two sisters snuck quietly through the near-empty halls of Winterfell, only a few people stirring to begin the day in the castle.

 

The crypts were chilly for Sansa and Arya’s light summer dresses. At the bottom of the stairs, off to the side, was a shroud covering what must be the object in question. Sansa balked as they approached it. “We shouldn’t be here.”

 

“I want to see.”

 

“Why?” demanded Sansa. “Why would you want to see such an awful thing? And why do you want to make _me_ see it?”

 

“Maybe if we see...” began Arya slowly, “maybe we’ll know why Father had to do it. Mother said he had to because he’d made a promise.”

 

“That doesn’t make any sense, Arya.”

 

“Nothing about this makes _any_ sense,” said Arya. “I’m lifting the sheet.”

 

“I won’t look,” Sansa said, turning away.

 

The thing under the sheet had been cleaned but was still a ragged mess of gashes. Grotesquely fascinated, Arya cocked her head and took it all in: the mutilated face, the hole in the neck, the blood dried on the kraken embroidery that she’d seen at feasts and special occasions before. She brought her arm to cover her face. “It smells. Sansa, come and see.” Sansa shook her head furiously, not looking round. “Craven,” accused Arya.

 

The door creaked open at the top of the stairs, and both girls gasped and turned to look. Sansa caught a glimpse of what lay under the sheet, and turned away, horrified. Dropping the sheet, Arya seized her sister’s arm and dragged her away behind one of the tombs.

 

“This is disrespectful,” whispered Sansa.

 

“Shut up,” Arya hissed.

 

Northmen’s chattering voices echoed indecipherably through the crypts, and Sansa and Arya watched them gather the body and carry it up the stairs. When the door swung shut after them, they glanced at each other then crept back up the stairs, sneaking back out into the bright daylight.

 

The Northmen were carrying the body to a cart to prepare it for the trip to the Iron Islands, so that it could be buried at sea. Trying to stay out of sight, the sisters disappeared into a corridor – where they ran smack into their father.

 

“Girls,” Ned Stark said. “What are you doing out of bed this early?”

 

Seeing that her sister was staring, mouth agape, Sansa improvised, “We were coming to see you off.”

 

“Your mother was looking for you,” their father said, leading them back outside. “So we can all say goodbye.”

 

The Stark children were, on the whole, subdued that morning, with the exception of Rickon, who was graced with the manic energy typical of 4-year-olds in the early hours of the morning. Catelyn and the children exchanged brief, loving goodbyes with Ned, who then went to resume preparations for departure. Catelyn took Rickon and Bran back inside, and Sansa begged off, but Robb, Jon, and Arya stayed behind, watching from the upper walkway in the yard.

 

The three siblings were silent as they watched the carts and horses being loaded up and the men calling to each other as all was prepared. Robb’s eyes scarcely moved from the cart that held Theon’s body. Eventually the company of Northmen made its slow way out the gate of the castle. As he left, Ned Stark raised a hand to his children, who gazed at him with solemn eyes. Then the travelers were gone, and the yard returned to its usual activities of a morning. The three Stark children remained, staring out the gate.

 

“I couldn’t have imagined this,” Jon said eventually, voice hushed. “I thought he’d make it.”

 

“So did I,” said Robb.

 

“It’s not fair,” Arya burst out angrily. “It’s all because of something some stupid Ironborn did far away. Father should never have chased him.”

 

“Father was doing what he was supposed to, Arya,” chided Robb, not quite believing the words coming out of his mouth. “He was doing his duty to the king.”

 

“I don’t care,” she said sullenly.

 

“We just have to...move on. Anyway, Arya, you didn’t even like him! _I’m_ the only one who liked him!”

 

“I don’t like Sansa,” said Arya. “And right now, I don’t like you. But you’re still my _family._ ” She took off running, and Robb and Jon watched her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was fucked up.
> 
> More to come!


	3. Better run like hell when you hit the ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For his 15th name-day, Theon Greyjoy had received a handsome wooden box carved with the Greyjoy kraken sigil, a new bow that had been custom-built to fit him by the Winterfell armorer, and a black palfrey which he had named Harren the Black.
> 
> For his 16th name-day, Theon ventured into his first town since his flight from Winterfell and counted himself lucky that the coin he had with him would cover the cost of a decent cloth cloak.

For his 15th name-day, Theon Greyjoy had received a handsome wooden box carved with the Greyjoy kraken sigil, a new bow that had been custom-built to fit him by the Winterfell armorer, and a black palfrey which he had named Harren the Black.

 

For his 16th name-day, Theon ventured into his first town since his flight from Winterfell and counted himself lucky that the coin he had with him would cover the cost of a decent cloth cloak. The cloak was ugly, but warm, and after a month in the chill woods North of Winterfell, he would take whatever he could afford in terms of insulation. The same merchant who sold him the cloak also furnished him with a new bag, which brought his purse down to three measly coins. He would likely be better off saving them, but...well, it was his name-day, and some well-cooked food and time indoors wouldn’t go amiss.

 

In the month that had passed since the bandit attack (since the night Theon had killed two people), he’d practiced every day with his sword and with a dagger he’d brought. It helped take up the time some, since one thing that he’d learned since leaving Winterfell was that the woods were _boring._ There was no one to talk to (of course not, as no one was meant to know that he still lived), and Theon was not so far gone yet that he would talk to himself. His days had mostly been spent walking, honing his fighting skills, and hunting for game or what fruit he could find. His nights were spent shivering in the poor shelters he made for himself or up trees. Day in, day out, _every. Damn. Day._

 

The tavern the merchant had recommended was warm and crowded with smallfolk. Theon found himself crammed in a corner with his new bag and was glad he’d thought to stash his other belongings in a tree outside the town – all except the short dagger he had tucked in his waistband. One of the tavern workers asked if he wanted some ale, so he said, “Just some food, whatever’s cheapest.” A few minutes later a shoddily-made meat pie on a plate was clunked down in front of him.

 

The first bite seemed like the best thing he’d ever tasted, better even than sumptuous feasts that would be laid out at Winterfell for special occasions. Famished, he devoured the pie down to its crumbs then stared unblinkingly at his plate for a time, over-full. He’d lost a fair amount of weight that he couldn’t afford to lose in the first place, over the past month.

 

“You!” came a voice behind him. Theon ignored it, picking at the remaining crumbs on his plate. “ _You_!” the voice said again, closer and accompanied by foul breath. Turning, Theon found himself nose-to-nose with a bruiser of a man who had bent down to look at him. Theon startled backwards, and the brute laughed mockingly, standing back up to his full height, which was not unimpressive. “You’re in my seat, little boy.”

 

Now Theon could get a good look at the man, whose sneering smile was missing several teeth, and whose nose had clearly been broken several times over. The man reeked of horse dung. Disgusted, Theon ignored him and gestured for the tavern worker to come back around, as he thought if he was going to have to put up with the stench, he might as well splurge on same alcohol.

 

“I _said,_ ” the man insisted, shoving at Theon’s shoulder, “you’re _in_ my _seat._ ”

 

“I heard you,” Theon said, rolling his eyes. He’d caught the tavern worker’s eye, but the man had evaluated the developing situation and was steering well clear. Frustrated, Theon shifted to face his harasser, looking the man up-and-down.

 

“Why are you looking at me like you think you’re better than me?” scoffed the man.

 

“I am better than you,” said Theon, who was then suddenly lifted to his feet by the person he’d insulted.

 

“What did you say, boy?” the man snarled, holding Theon still and breathing right into his face.

 

“It is really quite incredible,” Theon said, his mouth continuing to move without apparent connection to his brain.

 

The man grunted. “What is?”

 

“That your breath manages to smell worse than the rest of you.”

 

The brute drove his fist into Theon’s gut without any further ceremony, then shoved him aside onto the floor, taking his vacated seat. “You don’t smell like no bed of winter roses, yourself, you little shit.” Coughing, Theon scrambled back to his feet and grabbed at the man’s shirt, raising a fist, but the man’s enormous hand engulfed Theon’s where it rested against his shoulder. “Push off,” the man warned. He released Theon’s hand, muttering, “Ponce.”

 

Glancing about, Theon noted that no one seemed to be paying attention; apparently this was normal behavior in this tavern. Then again, what did Theon know about smallfolk? Better to get out now and cut his losses. “My bag,” he said.

 

“Wot?”

 

“My bag. You have my bag behind you.”

 

“Push off,” the man repeated, growling.

 

Angered, Theon drew his dagger. The tavern went silent; _now_ everyone was paying attention. “My bag,” he said again, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Give me my bag and I’ll leave.”

 

“Come on, Dyron, give the kid his bag,” cajoled another man who was seated nearby. “Let’s not have any bloodshed tonight.” He winked at the other men at his table, who snickered.

 

Moving slowly, the big man, Dyron, reached behind him, drew out Theon’s new pack, and shoved it at Theon, who fumbled with it and the knife awkwardly. Dyron’s friends at the other table laughed a little harder. Righting the dagger, Theon directed it at the bully again and backed away.

 

“Put the knife away, lad, you’re liable to cut yourself,” someone said off to his side, with a jeering laugh.

 

Theon finally stumbled backwards out of the tavern, and someone slammed the door shut behind him, leaving him outside in the dark and cold. A man was pissing against a nearby wall, and he looked at Theon askance as Theon tucked the dagger back into its sheath, rubbing at his bruising stomach where the big man had punched him. Shortly thereafter he was heartily sick on his way out of town, and, cursing all smallfolk and their wretched smallfolk ancestors, disappeared back into the freezing forest.

 

***

 

It was some time before Theon risked going into a town again. Deciding he’d gone far enough North (i.e. that it was _fucking freezing_ and he didn’t want it to get even more so), he cut East. He was starting to be a little better about catching game, taking at least one small animal or bird a day, though he had yet to take anything larger than a hare. It would help if he could set some traps, but he didn’t want to stay in one place long enough to check back on them the next day. His skills at setting up and taking down a campsite at speed were improving, at least.

 

The problem had occurred to him that he wasn’t exactly getting a balanced diet, subsisting mainly on fire-blackened game and the occasional apple or berry. There were vegetables available for purchase in the towns he passed, he knew, but he had no coin with which to buy them. Of course, he could always decide to ‘pay the iron price’ for them, as it were, but seeing as 1) he wasn’t really Ironborn anymore, since his family had left him for dead and 2) he didn’t know the right way to steal things and thus would likely be caught, he thought it best to try to procure some coin another way.

 

There were other things he needed, too. A new water-skin, for one, since he was at present forced to thrive on hope that he’d come across streams and ponds as he went. For another, no matter that he’d retrieved as many as he could as he hunted, his supply of arrows was running short. And a new bedroll would be very nice. Theon dreamed about a new bedroll, or he would, if he got any sleep at all without a bedroll.

 

Things would be different, he knew, if he could settle somewhere. He went back and forth on this matter almost every day: if he got far enough away, and everyone knew that Theon Greyjoy was dead, then he could find somewhere to live on a more permanent basis. But if his gambit _hadn’t_ worked, and they thought he was still alive, it was better that he kept moving. In either case, he needed to stay away from Winterfell, and from everywhere surrounding Winterfell, and from loyal bannermen to the Starks, since many of them had met him in the 8 years he’d been a hostage. Briefly, he thought of going to the Wall and taking the black, but he didn’t exactly relish the idea of an entirely celibate life. All in all, it was best to get used to being on the move.

 

Theon hit on a potential solution to his lack of coin when skinning the largest rabbit he’d found so far: he could sell the fur. One day he took two rabbits and a stoat, skinned and gutted them, scraped the skins off as best he could, then took off for the nearest town, reaching it by late afternoon. The tannery there was happy enough to buy the skins, but for far less money than he’d expected. As he was walking away, though, a woman called out to him from next door to the tannery.

 

“You’d get more if you tanned ‘em yourself, love.” She was an older woman, stout, with frizzled grey hair, and she waved him over as if to tell him a secret. Wary, Theon approached her. “I know Auster Hastwyck, the tanner, been neighboring him for some 23 years, and he is a cheat.”

 

“What are you telling him, Nera?!” called the tanner, who was poking his head out of his doorway.

 

“That you’re the best tanner this side of Winterfell!” she shouted back, then winked at Theon.

 

The tanner cackled, triumphant. “You bet your arse!” He disappeared into his store again.

 

“Don’t tell that bugger I told you anything, but here’s what you’re going to do. To start with, you’ll need as much salt as you can carry.” Briefly, she laid out the method for tanning a hide. Theon had heard some of it before, but only in passing.

 

“Why are you telling me all this?”

 

“Got some shiny new coins, don’t you, love?” The woman indicated the money he’d just received from the tanner. Theon clutched them tighter, nostrils flaring. “Just japing with you, lad! Where are you from?”

 

 _Shit. Think fast._ “Winter Town.”

 

“That far South? Hunh. And how long have you been on your own?”

 

“I’m traveling to visit my aunt with my father. He’s waiting for me outside of town.”

 

“Sure, love, and I’m Cersei Lannister, the queen of the bloody seven kingdoms,” laughed the woman. “I saw you talking to that cheat Hastwyck and I said to myself, Nera, if you don’t help that boy there’s no living with yourself.”

 

“I’m fine,” protested Theon. “I’m doing well enough on my own. I mean,” _shit,_ “with my father.”

 

“Hmm.” The woman evaluated him for a moment. It felt uncomfortably like the times Ned Stark had called him in for judgment in his study; a bit like someone was rifling through his brain and not approving of everything they saw there. “Stay here a minute.” It was longer than a minute. Theon stood uneasily in the street, nodding at occasional passers-by. Finally, the woman reappeared holding a bag. “These are for you.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“A little of this, a little of that. Put a mending needle and some thread in there for your torn cloak.” It had caught on a branch a few days before – he’d thought he’d hidden the rip. “Some other things.”

 

Baffled, Theon looked from the bag back to this stranger who was doing this for no reason he could discern. “Why?”

 

“Never you mind, love. What’d you say your name was?”

 

Theon’s mind blanked. After a beat, he blurted, “Tarik.” The name of the teenage bandit he’d killed.

 

“All right, Tarik, off you go, and remember what I said about scraping the skin _very thoroughly_ before you salt it.” Nodding and utterly without words, Theon turned and walked on to buy some food (and salt) from a market the next street over.

 

Once safely in his encampment for the night, Theon unpacked the little satchel the woman Nera had handed him. It contained the promised needle and thread, several bread buns wrapped in cloth, a metal cup, a wooden bowl and spoon, a tub of some unidentifiable ointment, and a small jug of – he uncorked it to smell – strong liquor, ooh, thank you, Nera. Such simple things, things he wouldn’t even have looked twice at in Winterfell or on Pyke, but now...now Theon was struck dumb at the generosity of a peasant woman who didn’t even know who he was.

 

The following day, once he’d gotten a little farther from the town, Theon felled his biggest prey yet since he’d left Winterfell: a young buck, with what was probably its first set of antlers. His sense of triumph was so great that he almost felt like dancing, and upon realizing this, Theon thought, _This is me, the once-future Lord of the Iron Islands, ready to jump up and down like Sansa Stark after hearing a tale because I **shot a bloody deer**. _

Still, he felled a deer with one shot. Not a bad day’s work.

 

It took the rest of his daylight to skin and gut the carcass. He hung most of the meat high in a tree to keep the predators away, and as the day waned, he scraped the hide and brought it and the antlers with him to his new campsite, stretching the newly-salted hide out on a tree branch. Then, mightily pleased with himself, he cooked a chunk of venison over a campfire and sat playing idly with one of the antlers as he ate.

There wasn’t much warning for it. Theon slowly became aware of a rustling sound off to his right, then a scraping noise against a tree. When he turned, at first he thought his eyes were tricking him in the poor light from the fire, but then he realized what he was seeing: a mountain lion, an enormous one. It was scraping at the tree near where he’d hung his (clearly inadequately) scraped and salted deer hide and as he watched, it grasped the hide in its teeth and yanked it down. Slowly and cautiously, Theon stood and made his way to his bow, making as little noise as he could manage. The mountain lion lifted its head from the hide, eyes flashing bright as they reflected the firelight.

 

Clenching his teeth, Theon nocked an arrow and drew, heart pounding as if it sought to escape from his chest. He let the arrow fly, but his nerves had affected his aim, and the arrow struck the animal’s shoulder rather than its eye. Before Theon had a chance to react the beast was charging him. He nocked another arrow frantically, but the weight of the mountain lion fell into him heavily, bowling him over, and he cried out in shock.

 

The ground was cold and covered with pine needles, but Theon used it to brace himself to gather his legs under the growling animal and shove it off of him as best he could. It only moved the mountain lion a few feet, but it was enough for Theon to raise himself up on his hands and try to get out from under it. The mountain lion’s enormous paw swiped at Theon’s abdomen and _tore_ – Theon cried out again, this time in pain. He kicked frantically with his feet, to little effect, and the beast moved further up his body, this time swiping at Theon’s face. Blood filled his vision. Desperate, he scrabbled at the ground around him, searching for any kind of weapon to bring to bear against the animal. His hand grasped something: one of the antlers of the deer he’d felled.

 

Theon got his hand under the animal’s chest and pushed as hard as he could. Just as the mountain lion snapped its jaws inches from Theon’s face, Theon jabbed the antler into the animal’s neck with all of his might. Fur and hide parted under the assault and he felt the antler strike bone. The beast still thrashed, mouth opening and shutting with its sharp teeth startlingly near Theon’s shoulder, so with adrenaline-fueled strength he ripped the antler free of the animal’s flesh, blood and gore flying, and gouged it once more into the beast’s neck. The thrashing slowed and finally stopped, the full mass of the mountain lion falling heavily on top of Theon, who flailed and shoved the body off of himself as best he could. Finally, he was free of the bulk and the wound in his belly made itself known. Theon curled up around it, breathing harshly, and stared for some time at the half-lidded eyes of the dead mountain lion resting a few feet away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter titles: 
> 
> Theon, you little shit.
> 
> OR
> 
> Oh no, Theon!


	4. Day after day it reappears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing in Theon’s life had prepared him for the feeling of sticking a sewing needle through his own flesh. He stopped after the first stitch, breathing hard, then held his breath for the next one. The work was sloppy; Theon had never sewn anything before. But he knew that the torn skin wouldn’t stay together to heal on its own. He remembered Maester Luwin expertly sewing up a cut that Robb had gotten after falling from a tree in the Godswood at age 10. Theon had watched in horrified fascination as the Maester worked, while Robb had bitten his lip so hard that he’d bled to keep from making a sound.

 

Before anything else, Theon thought he ought to move the deer hide that had caused all the trouble out of the campsite. This procedure involved him struggling to his feet, limping his way around the fire, bending down to pick up the pelt, then gasping in pain and straightening again, clutching his gut. _Fuck._ Theon wiped blood from his right eye. Best to tend to his wounds first – he didn’t know the extent of the damage, or even if he’d survive to daybreak.

 

Theon fell to his knees beside the fire and, with some effort, uncurled his arm from around his midsection. There were several tears in the cloth of his tunic, and everything was soaked with blood. Picking the wet cloth from the wound, he tried to lean closer to the firelight to get a better look, but there was no help for it: he’d have to remove his shirt. This was accomplished with a lot of quiet cursing and whimpers. Finally, he had the shirt off and could examine the damage.

 

Another quarter-inch and Theon would have been struggling to hold his guts inside of his body. As it was there were several long gashes that certainly wouldn’t heal on their own. Theon carefully touched his fingertips to the wound on his face: from what he could tell there were several shallow cuts from his hairline to partly down his cheek. There was blood matting his hair and trickling into one of his eyes, but this injury wasn’t as bad as the ones on his abdomen.

 

Clumsily, he grasped for the bag that the peasant women, Nera, had gifted him. _Thank fuck for Nera,_ Theon thought as he withdrew the small jug of liquor she’d given him. He’d only had a few swallows of it so far, so most of the liquid remained. Bracing himself mentally, he uncorked the bottle and, shaking, poured alcohol over the wounds on his middle. A scream ripped its way from his throat at the searing pain as the liquid touched his torn flesh. Tears plowing tracks down his face, he poured more of the liquor on a cleaner part of his tattered tunic, dabbing this onto the scratches on his face.

 

Nothing in Theon’s life had prepared him for the feeling of sticking a sewing needle through his own flesh. He stopped after the first stitch, breathing hard, then held his breath for the next one. The work was sloppy; Theon had never sewn anything before. But he knew that the torn skin wouldn’t stay together to heal on its own. He remembered Maester Luwin expertly sewing up a cut that Robb had gotten after falling from a tree in the Godswood at age 10. Theon had watched in horrified fascination as the Maester worked, while Robb had bitten his lip so hard that he’d bled to keep from making a sound.

 

Eventually, after what felt like hours, Theon tied off the last stitch and weakly tugged at the fabric of his cloak to tear a strip off for a bandage. He ended up having to use his knife to cut the cloth, then he tied the strip as tightly as he could around his middle. As he unsteadily climbed to his feet, his gaze fell on the downed mountain lion: there was no chance in seven hells he’d be able to drag it from the campsite in the condition he was in. The thing probably weighed 200 pounds, so he might not even have been able to shift it at his full strength. Better to get as far away from it as he could before it attracted other predators.

 

The sun was rising when Theon had finally packed all of his belongings to come with him. This included the wretched deer hide, which would need to be re-scraped and salted – after all the trouble, he couldn’t bring himself to leave it. Properly tanned it could probably bring him enough coin to at least suitably outfit himself for his new, glamorous life as a runaway in the woods.

 

Theon made slow progress going East through the trees until the early evening when, legs wobbly with exhaustion, he set up a new campsite, this time leaving the hide some fair distance away. He didn’t take the time to set up any shelter for himself, just rolled himself up in his cloak, drank some water, and fell into a heavy sleep. The next morning, he awoke to find his wounds had bled through his makeshift bandage, so when he came upon a frozen pond he broke the ice to clean it and cut another strip from his precious cloak to re-wrap. The wounds looked red and puffy around the stitches, and hurt like _stink,_ but at least they were holding together.

 

Upon examining the scratches on his face in his reflection in the pond, Theon concluded they would definitely scar. Not that it mattered; who did he have to impress anymore? There were no kitchen girls or serving wenches to tell him how handsome he looked and bat their eyelashes at him out here. Only fucking mountain lions and bandits and other things that were out to kill him. And no soap.

 

Gods, Theon would happily stab someone for a single bar of soap.

 

Later that day, Theon’s vision started going periodically blurry, and he’d shake his head to clear it. At one point the world seemed to spin around him, so much so that he had to sit down on a nearby rock and put his head between his knees. That seemed to help the dizziness, but his wounds were still hurting, worse than before, and no amount of water seemed to make the pain stop. Theon resorted to applying the unknown goop that Nera had given him, which stung as he rubbed it over the gashes on his midsection. They’d begun to ooze pus – Theon may have been inexperienced in such things, but he thought that was probably not the best sign.

 

His food was running low, so Theon knew he’d need to hunt, but when he drew his bow pain shot across his abdomen and he screamed. Then his vision went black, and he felt himself falling.

 

He was unconscious by the time he hit the ground.

 

***

 

Robb was there standing above him, with a great smile on his face. Robb held out a hand and levered Theon off the ground, and Theon embraced his friend.

 

“We’re brothers, now and forever,” said Robb, his hands on Theon’s shoulders.

 

“You’re not my brother!” came a childish voice from behind him. Theon turned round and he was in the Godswood at Winterfell. An 8-year-old Theon Greyjoy was refusing a hand up from 7-year-old Robb. “My real brothers are dead!”

 

A hand landed on Theon’s shoulder, and he looked up. It was Ned Stark. “Time to go, lad,” he said, and Ice was in his hand, and now Robb and Jon held Theon’s arms as he struggled and they pushed his head down on the stump, and Ned Stark raised the greatsword over his head, and –

 

Yara was pushing him into the great hall on Pyke and their mother was there. “Now, sweetling,” his mother said, petting his hair, brushing her thumb over where ~~the mountain lion~~ his brothers had belted him.

 

“Tell him to fight back next time,” said Yara, and Theon turned to look but when he turned back to his mother his mother had no face and she was crying and –

 

“The boy’s got no iron in him, anyhow,” spat the spectre of Balon Greyjoy, some ten feet tall and dripping blood. “Take him.” And he and Ned Stark turned away from Theon, two towering figures walking away into the darkness and –

 

Theon shrank and shrank and the Drowned God appeared and grew and grew, twenty feet high, rotting and stinking and dripping with seawater. The Drowned God raised one enormous, fetid boot and pressed it on Theon’s chest and Theon fell back back back into the sea, the waves at low tide at first but then the water became deeper and deeper and closed over his head and Theon inhaled and coughed and there was only water –

 

***

 

Gradually Theon awoke and became aware of several things: 1) he was utterly drenched in his own sweat, 2) his midsection was a fiery ball of agony, and 3) there was a persistent and repetitive painful pulling and rending of his forehead where the scratches from the mountain lion attack lay exposed. Theon forced his aching eyes open and saw a mass of black feathers and talons. Weakly, he raised a hand and pushed at the feathers and there was a flapping and the crow that had been pecking at his forehead protested with a “caw!” as it was dislodged.

 

“Mnnnn,” he groaned, trying to sit up. The crow cawed at him again. “Piss off,” he told it. “I’m not dead yet.” _Probably not, anyway,_ he reasoned.

 

Sitting up hurt, but Theon did it anyway, hurrying to unwrap the bandage around his abdomen. The bandage was soaked with pus and blood, but the wound looked healthier. He hadn’t thanked the peasant woman who gave him the gifts that had helped him tend his injuries, but he mentally thanked her now. Clearly, the mystery ointment had helped fight back the infection.

 

***

 

It took a good long while, but eventually Theon stopped oversleeping every time he paused for the night as he healed and was able to properly draw a bow again. Just in time, too, as he had reached the end of his food supply and was resorting to subsisting on a disgusting tea made from pine needles. The damned deer hide took weeks and weeks to dry and treat, since he was moving it every day and only leaving it to dry at night.

 

Time passed, and Theon survived. He’d mostly keep to himself in the forest, avoiding any hunting parties that happened across his campsites, and only venturing into settlements when he absolutely needed to – better to keep away from people who might recognize him, though there was less of a chance of that as he moved farther and farther away from Winterfell. Theon lost track of the days passing, only catching up on news when he did go into towns to sell whatever furs he had treated. He was getting much better about setting up and taking down campsites at speed. A few times he risked keeping a campsite for the few weeks it took to tan furs properly.

 

Slowly, Theon improved. There were difficult times, but he always learned from them. He learned to sew his own fur-lined cloak, first with sloppy stitches then with greater skill. Theon was fiercely lonely with only himself for company; he had been used to the busy life of a fully-complemented castle, after all. The absence of Robb, his best friend and confidante, was a sharp ache in his chest. Sometimes Theon would find himself imagining what Robb would say about his daily life – simple things, like boasting about his greater skill with a sword as Theon waved his own in sword drills. Or the time Theon trapped a raccoon and it popped into his mind unbidden that Robb would certainly imitate what he thought the raccoon’s voice might sound like. Theon laughed out loud at that, for the first time in months, and startled himself.

 

The first time a merchant in a small town complimented on Theon’s skill with furs was notable because of Theon’s reaction. “Oh, these are very fine, and no holes in ‘em neither,” said the merchant, a rotund man with eyes that were set just a little too far apart.

 

Theon preened a little under the praise. “I thank you,” he said, his voice rough with disuse.

 

“Yes, well done.” The merchant named a higher price than Theon’s work had ever earned before, and Theon gladly accepted. He walked away with a heavier purse and his chest puffed with pride. Then he realized something, and his pride deflated.

 

Once there’d been a time when only commendation from Ser Rodrik or Ned Stark himself would bolster his confidence in his own abilities. Now approval from smallfolk for that bare minimum of accomplishments – making something useful from hunting, which used to be merely a pleasant pastime – meant everything. _Oh how the mighty have fallen,_ Theon thought bitterly as he wandered, distracted, through the market of this small town which was utterly indistinguishable from the others he had traversed.

 

But it did mean something, didn’t it? Hadn’t it been nearly a year since he’d set out into the wilds on his own? And none of the Stark children would have known how to properly cure a hide to make it soft and pliable for use; and neither would Yara or Balon Greyjoy have known. Surely it was worthy of a little satisfaction that he hadn’t perished from starvation two months into his new life, and instead had learned valuable, life-preserving skills.

 

Theon walked a little taller after that.

 

On occasion Theon would overhear news of the goings-on at Winterfell, or on the Iron Islands. Most of it was uninteresting. The fact was that Theon couldn’t give less of a flying fuck about either of his two “fathers” – the one who had tried to kill him, and the one who hadn’t minded that Theon’s life was forfeit due to his father’s actions. But when he happened to overhear news of his sister Yara’s successes in the Iron Fleet, or of Robb’s talents as a future successor of the Stark name, Theon couldn’t help the twinge in his stomach, and take a little joy for his sibling and for his best friend.

 

***

 

Business in this tavern was slow this time of day – Theon had chosen the time specifically for that purpose. A brief word with the barman gave Theon the information he needed. “Oh, you’ll be wanting our Jaks,” said the barman, rubbing at a tankard with a cloth, presumably to move the dirt inside into a prettier formation. “She’s in the room at the back.” He gestured with a jerk of his head.

 

Theon had only frequented the pleasure house in Winter Town once before, he and Robb snickering and daring each other to enter. Robb had finally bowed out before entering, but Theon had partaken. So it wasn’t like this was his first time, and anyway he was nearly 17, and a man got tired of his own hand alone in the woods. Nervous, and inwardly admonishing himself not to be, he knocked on the door to the back room. A woman’s voice called out to let himself in.

 

“Looking for me, sweetheart?” The woman was scantily-clad and relaxing on a poorly-stuffed straw mattress in the back room. Closing the door behind him, Theon took in the sight with hungry eyes. “I’m Jaks.” She looked him up and down. “I’m on my break, but I’ll make an exception for a handsome bugger like you.” The words sounded rote. Theon imagined she said this to every man who sought her services. “What’s your name?”

 

“Tarik,” said Theon.

 

“Come on in, then, and take your shirt off; it’s warm in here.” As she spoke, she pulled her own dress off, so Theon fumbled with his own tunic, revealing the still-red scars on his middle. “I love a man with scars. Shows he’s lived some.” Roughly, Jaks pushed Theon down on the bed and climbed onto his lap. He pulled her hips down onto his and grasped at one of her breasts, breathing in her scent. Jaks chuckled. “That’s right, little lordling. I’ll take care of you, no need to rush.”

 

Theon froze. “Why’d you call me that?”

 

Jaks ground down onto him and he groaned in response. “I know highborn when I see it,” she breathed, grinning. “You’ve got that air about you.”

 

“No, I don’t.” His hands had stilled on her hips.

 

“Sure, you do. It’s how you carry yourself. I won’t call you lordling if you don’t like it. How’s ‘princeling’ instead?” Jaks cooed, her fingers combing through his hair.

 

All desire for this encounter had fled. “I have to leave.” Jaks didn’t move. “Get off me. I’m leaving.”

 

Obligingly, she slid off him onto the bed. “So soon, sweetheart? We haven’t even had our fun yet.”

 

In a rush, Theon retrieved his tunic from the floor and pulled it back on, then pulled out some coins. “How much for your silence?”

 

“No one’ll hear about you from me,” said Jaks, accepting the coins. After examining them, she held out her hand expectantly for more, and Theon hurriedly pressed several more coins on her. “Sure you don’t want a tumble? I won’t tell anyone,” she said, winking.

 

“No,” he said, opening the door. “No.”

 

Furious with himself, and with the woman, Theon retreated to the wilderness, picking up his pack and walking still farther East. _Highborn,_ he thought. _What about me says ‘highborn’? The peasant clothes? The haircut I gave myself with a fucking dagger?_ Maybe Jaks said that to every man who passed through, but Theon thought it wasn’t worth the risk. Ruefully, he consigned himself to relying on his own hand – at least until he learned how to walk the walk of the peasant folk.

 

As the months went on, Theon rambled farther North and East, not really paying attention to where his wanderings took him. Until the day he went too close to the Dreadfort and witnessed the hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, writing about a crow eating Theon's face: What am I writing???? He's only sixteen!!!
> 
> Thank you times a million for all of your kudos and comments! You guys are amazing, and keeping me inspired to write. ^_^
> 
> Come find me on Tumblr if you wanna, my username there is the same as my username here.


	5. Fall is here, hear the yell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Theon watched, the woman fell back against the tree in which he was perched and collapsed into frightened sobs. “Please,” she begged the men, who slowed in their pursuit as they drew closer, “please.”
> 
> “I’m sorry, Lyla,” said the man holding the bow, not sounding sorry at all. “It can’t be helped. You stole a candlestick from my father’s chambers.”

 Theon heard the dogs barking first and did as he usually did when encountering someone else in the woods: swung up into the closest tree and hid among the pine needles. There was the sound of distant shouting. As Theon watched, a woman, not dressed for the chill weather, stumbled through a stream some distance away. The hem of her dress was several inches deep in mud, and it was tripping her up. She was panting for breath and clearly terrified, and where she might have been running before, she was faltering now. An arrow hit a tree right near here with a _thock_ sound, which caused her to cry out and put on another burst of speed.

 

The woman’s pursuers gradually became visible: two men, one holding a bow and occasionally pausing to take a shot. Every once in awhile one of them would call out to her, but they seemed mostly to be chatting casually, as if they were out for a lovely, invigorating run in the woods. The man carrying the bow was slighter than the other man, who was broader and taller. They were surrounded by three barking and growling hounds, of the sort that Ned Stark had never allowed in Winterfell, because they were too vicious to be safely kept.

 

As Theon watched, the woman fell back against the tree in which he was perched and collapsed into frightened sobs. “Please,” she begged the men, who slowed in their pursuit as they drew closer, “please.”

 

“I’m sorry, Lyla,” said the man holding the bow, not sounding sorry at all. “It can’t be helped. You stole a candlestick from my father’s chambers.”

 

“I didn’t! I didn’t!” cried the woman, Lyla, her voice hitching with tears.

 

“Lying doesn’t become you,” the man replied with an insincere smile. His features were almost cherubic; he had a face Theon would have called friendly were it not for the cruelty in his eyes. “You’ve given us a decent chase – Culler,” he said to his companion, “should I reward her with a quick death?” The man drew his bow and aimed it at the woman’s heart, and she burst into renewed tears.

 

“You could always go the traditional route,” said the stout man addressed as Culler. “After all, the flayed man is on your father’s banners, Ramsay.”

 

_Ramsay?_ Was this Ramsay Snow, then, Roose Bolton’s bastard? Theon had heard rumors about him, none of them good.

 

The woman at the base of the tree had frozen in panic at the word ‘flayed’, but Theon could see her shaking.

 

“Hmm,” Ramsay Snow hummed, considering his options with a tilted head. “What do you think, Lyla?” Lyla’s head started to tic a ‘no.’ “No, I don’t know if we’ll go that far today. Ah, well,” he sighed, “best to just feed the dogs, then. _Rip! Kill!_ ” he commanded with no further ceremony, and the hounds, which had been growling and standing impatiently nearby, took their cue and lunged forward.

 

One of the dogs latched onto the woman’s hand and tore at it, and she shrieked, bright blood quickly soaking the pale green sleeve of her dress. Theon found himself unable to look away as the animals overwhelmed her and knocked her to the forest floor, where she writhed and screamed until she couldn’t anymore, because those pieces she required to do so no longer remained. The smell of iron and night-soil drifted up and Theon clung white-knuckled to the tree, breathing slowly and carefully so he wouldn’t vomit. He glanced Ramsay Snow’s way again, and the man’s eyes were lit up with a frightening sort of glee at the carnage before him.

 

Culler chatted unconcernedly about their plans for the rest of the day while the hounds’ jaws worked to rend meat from the dead woman’s carcass. Ramsay answered only sporadically, his mind clearly greatly occupied with his enjoyment of the grisly sight before him.

 

Some time later, when Ramsay Snow and his hounds had been gone for nearly an hour, Theon released his death grip on the bark of the tree and stiffly lowered himself to the ground next to what was left of the woman Lyla. Briefly he thought about burying her corpse, but if Snow or anyone else from the Dreadfort came looking, he didn’t want them to know anyone had been there to witness the events of the day. No; best to just get the fuck out of there and never go near the Dreadfort again. He wanted to say a few words over the woman, but he wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing and left with a sick feeling in his gut.

 

That night and for many nights thereafter Theon had nightmares about the sound of blood gurgling in the woman’s throat, and the tearing of her dress and flesh all in one movement of the dogs’ jaws.

 

***

 

Theon made his way back South after that, though not so far South as to come close to Winterfell. Some of the towns he passed through held people who remembered him from his journey North, though he made it a point not to offer a name to them, and if they pressed, to give them a false one. All the while he worked at cultivating his skills, now so different than what he’d practiced in years past. His marksmanship had improved still further, and now that he’d figured out the basics of tanning he improved at that as well. The shelters he built at night were snugger and warmer.

 

He’d bribed a smith to teach him to make his own arrows; he’d had to, since it was expensive to buy them, and he could only use the ones he had so many times before they wore down. Whole days would be spent splitting wood, selecting perfect feathers for fletching, and hunting down the right stones to use for the arrowheads.

 

Before, Theon had thought it was too quiet in the woods, but now he’d grown accustomed to the birdsong, the wind in the trees, the rustle of animals in the underbrush, and when he went into towns to trade he found them overpoweringly loud.

 

It was in one such town that he overheard a few men chatting about the Iron Islands. Theon was selecting vegetables from a nearby stand when the voices behind him caught his attention.

 

“—yeah, what’s his daughter’s name, then?”

 

“Yara.” Theon’s hand stilled on a parsnip. “Should we call her ‘Princess Yara’?” The man laughed, and his friends joined in.

 

“’King Balon’ and another useless rebellion. I guess she is a princess, if you wanna call her father a king.”

 

“Why’s he want to be king, anyway? From what I hear the Iron Islands aren’t anything but a load of salt- and bird shit-covered rocks.”

 

“Yeah,” the first voice chimed in again. “An’ why’d he want to go and be king when he hasn’t even got someone to pass it down to – he got his own stupid son killed because he wanted to be king of a lot of nothing.”

 

“My cousin Dovan says Ironborn are just a lot of pissants, really. They just come in and steal everyone else’s stuff ‘cause they’re too stupid to grow their own food.”

 

“No, but what I’m saying,” said the first voice. Theon sneaked a peek over his shoulder: the speaker was a weaselly-looking man, small and thin with greasy, lank hair. “Balon Greyjoy hasn’t even got a wife, he’s not trying to get anymore heirs.”

 

“You going to buy that?” said the owner of the vegetable stand, and Theon was called back to himself: he was squeezing a potato so hard his knuckles had gone white. “Or are you just testing it’s fresh?” The seller gave Theon a wry smile.

 

“Sorry,” he muttered, handing over some coin. The seller piled some potatoes and parsnips into a bag for him while Theon turned to watch the three men still discussing the Iron Islands.

 

“—I heard he wants to name his daughter heir. I heard he’s given her command of ten ships, and she goes out a-reaving and a-raping with the rest of the bloody buggers.”

 

“Ten ships of her own?” laughed the weaselly man. “That must be some cunt she’s got. No wonder he’s not got any more heirs on a wife, he’s too busy fucking his dau—”

 

Theon dove for the man before he had realized what he was doing and landed on top of him in the dirt of the street. There was a general cry of surprise from others in the sparsely populated market, and Theon managed to get a few good hits in on the stunned man before someone intervened and dragged him away. Whoever-it-was hauled him up and clutched him around the front of his chest so he could see the blood on the weaselly man’s face.

 

“What the fuck? Where’d he even come from?”

 

“Why’d he go after you, Kerith?”

 

“Fuck if I know. Let’s ask him.”

 

“I’ve got a better idea.” Another one of the men turned round and tried to punch Theon in the gut, but, still acting without thinking, Theon levered himself up using the man holding him, and flung his lower half downward. The man who’d been holding him rolled forward over Theon’s shoulder and into the attempted gut-puncher, leaving Theon with a slightly-sore elbow and split knuckles, staring shocked at the havoc he’d just wreaked on a calm street. Quickly, he lunged and snagged the bag of vegetables from the surprised owner of the produce stand and took off running out of town.

 

***

 

 

When he knocked he wasn’t sure if she’d remember him; it had been over a year, after all, since he’d been in the little town called Pathstow. The first thing she did upon opening the door, however, was to exclaim in recognition, “Oh!” and gently but firmly pull on Theon’s tunic to guide him down to her level. “Your dear face,” she said, brushing a thumb over the long-healed scars around his right eye.

 

He’d rehearsed what he would say, but now he stammered, “You—you saved—I brought you this. Made you this.” Theon presented her with a fox-fur cloak that had taken him several months to get right. Well, not so much presented as shoved into her arms.

 

“Ooh,” said Nera, taking it and shaking it out to look. “You’ll fetch a fine price for this, love.”

 

“No, it’s. It’s for you. You saved my life,” Theon blurted, then looked round to see if anyone had noticed. Dusk was falling, and there weren’t that many people outside in the street.

 

“I did, eh? Best come in, love, you’ll catch a chill out here.” Nera efficiently draped the fox-fur cloak over her arm and with her other hand seized Theon’s wrist and dragged him, protesting, into her home.

 

It was cozy, warm, and dimly-lit by candlelight and a smoky fire in a fireplace inside. It was all one big room, with Nera’s bed in the corner, and laundry strung out on ropes crisscrossing the space.

 

“I take in a bit of washing and darning to pay the bills,” Nera explained, and waved a hand at him carelessly as she bustled over to the fireplace. “Go on, sit down, I’ll make you something.”

 

“I really shouldn’t – you don’t need to – ”

 

“Sit _down,_ ” said Nera with such command in her voice that Theon found himself sinking into a chair without thought, putting his pack down beside him. Gods, she was even better at that than Septa Mordane.

 

In the little over a year that he’d been away from Winterfell, Theon had not spent very much time indoors. Now he shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair as Nera bustled about in the portion of her cottage that served as a kitchen. The only sounds were Nera’s shuffling steps, the crackle of the fire, and the utensils she was using clinking against each other. Presently, she handed Theon a mug of soup and a spoon, then returned to moving busily around the cottage, gathering...supplies for something?

 

“Eat your soup, love,” she said, now placing some items in a bag. Obediently, Theon tasted his soup. It was terrible. He kept eating it. “I’ll put together a few things for you.”

 

“You don’t – ”

 

“Shh,” she shushed him. “So what have you been up to, lad, since I saw you, hmm?”

 

It was strange to talk to people after being alone in the woods for so long, and no one he spoke to ever really had an interest in him other than if he was going to sell something to them or buy something from them. All he’d meant to do was drop off the cloak. He'd owed her a debt. But now she’d brought him inside, and it was clear that the woman did not have a lot to her name, but she was still planning to give some of it to _him,_ and he’d been doing so well on his own, not _well_ but at least _better,_ and his days had been so empty, just himself alone figuring things out that no one had taught him, nothing to do but learn and listen to the sound of his own feet crunching through the underbrush and he hadn’t started talking to himself yet, but it was only a matter of time, and now he could feel his fingers and toes warming up and they hadn’t been warm, not really, not since he’d left Winterfell behind –

 

When Theon didn’t respond to her, Nera turned to look at him where he was sitting with his soup mug resting on his knee. “I thought you might’ve caught a chill, din’t I say?” Nera approached and wrapped her arms around him, making a show of rubbing his back to ‘warm him up.’

 

Theon sank into her embrace, and, mortified, choked on half a sob before burying his face in her shoulder and breathing in. She smelled like wood smoke and underneath that, soap. Abruptly, he pulled away and rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. Nera obligingly stepped back and returned to her puttering.

 

“Now, it’s been some time, love, so you’ll have to remind me, what’s your name?”

 

“Theon,” he said, and Nera stilled, briefly, before carrying on with what she was doing.

 

“That’s an unusual name,” she said carefully.

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

“Last time you came through, you said you was traveling with your father.”

 

“My father’s a long way from here.”

 

“Is he now,” she remarked. From across the room, Nera peered thoughtfully at him. “I heard there was a boy called Theon was killed some way Southwest of here last year.”

 

“I heard that, too.”

 

“Well,” she said, as if that were a full statement. Sitting on the only other chair in the cottage, she regarded him and sucked at her teeth noisily. “Pretty stupid to trust someone you don’t know, love.” There was a sharp intelligence in Nera’s narrowed eyes.

 

“About as stupid as giving free handouts to strangers,” parried Theon.

 

Tension filled the air that abruptly broke when Nera exclaimed, “Ha!” She grinned at him, and Theon smiled cautiously back. “Finish your soup, love, you’re helping me split wood after supper.”

 

After choking down the rest of his soup, Theon did an appalling job of splitting wood out behind Nera’s cottage, then spent the rest of the evening enjoying being bossed around and doing various chores for her. It was only when she tried to insist he stay the night that he drew the line.

 

“I’ve pillows and a spare bedroll, dear, you won’t be any bother and in the morning you can help me – ”

 

“I’m not staying, I can’t stay,” he protested. “I only came to give you the cloak. And to say – ” Theon stopped and wondered at himself. Here he was, Theon Greyjoy, last heir to one of the great houses of Westeros, laying himself at the altar of a peasant woman. His gaze took in the ground-in grubbiness of Nera’s cottage, her frizzled hair and her rough clothes. Was this what he had come to?

 

_Yes._

 

“I wanted to say thank you,” he finished.  “And you don’t have to give me anything else. I don’t need anything.”

 

“For my own good, then,” said Nera. Theon scoffed, incredulous, and she scoffed back, and laughed. “I used to have a little’un like you before the pox came to Pathstow. And a husband, too.” Their eyes met. “My little’un were only three, and then my husband drank himself to death mourning him.”

 

Theon said, “I should – ” and gestured at the door, but Nera continued.

 

“You got any other family, dear?”

 

“A sister.”

 

“Younger or older?”

 

“Older.”

 

“A mum?”

 

“No. Dead.”

 

“Well,” said Nera again, as if it were a full sentence. “Well. Just you take that bag, then, and drop in on me next time you come through so’s I know you’re keeping well.” She shoved the bag at him and Theon took it, nodded at her, and left.

 

***

 

Eight months later, news passed through the North that Jon Arryn had died, and King Robert was riding North for Winterfell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, I had to move house, and now I live in another place, hooray! Updates may be sporadic in the upcoming weeks, as I am putting up a play of my own creation in the Boston area. If you're interested, check out http://captaincobaltboston.eventbrite.com/ or search it up on Goldstar (Captain Cobalt vs the Sinister Scientist). The content is...just mildly different than people getting torn apart by dogs, lol.


End file.
